Sense Datum
by Measured
Summary: For Xirysa's challenge. Sometimes it isn't the sense itself so much as the loss that is noticed. Pelleas/Micaiah, Rajaion/Ena, Ike/Soren, Tibarn/Reyson, Boyd/Mist and Oscar/Ilyana
1. Blind Sight

**Sense Datum**

[Xirysa's challenge] Sometimes it isn't the sense itself so much as the loss that is noticed. PelleasMicaiah, RajaionEna, IkeSoren, TibarnReyson, BoydMist, OscarIlyana

sense datum

n. A basic unanalyzable sensation, such as a color or smell, experienced upon stimulation of a sense organ or receptor.

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Just a brief note on the story, if you will.

I started quite late, and by 'quite late' I mean it was basically a PreNanoLite. I decided to come in two weeks before the ending and then was too busy to get started until seven days until the finish, two of which were taken down by minor a head cold.

My goal wasn't actually winning, but writing some of my beloved underloved pairngs, some that don't have enough fans and some that simply don't have a lot of fanwork for them. And IkeSoren, which doesn't apply to either but hey, I'm a fangirl. (It turned out more gen than slash, anyways) I was glad for the chance to finally get out some pairings I've been meaning to write out forever. It was fun at times, frantic most of the time. Overall, I'd do it again.

Oh yeah, and sorry for the difference in formatting. Today ffnet decided to eat all the divider bars. It's a problem.

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Title: Blight Sight

Fandom: FE10

Character/Pairing: Pelleas/Micaiah

Summary: it seemed a fitting fate for a blind former king RD spoilers, divergent!au, PelleasMicaiah.

Sense: Sight.

"_What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all._"

-Barbra Kingsolver.

A/N:

The book that Micaiah's reading from is Idylls of the King by Tennyson. To be precise, it's from a section of _Gareth and Lynette_. The second part she'd just begun to read is from _Pelleas and Ettarre_ (Ettarde in Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur) Who is not only the namesake for Pelleas, but also shares quite a few characteristics. Though, strictly speaking, Seima's Franz is a closer match to Arthurian Pelleas. Still, it was obviously chosen for a reason.

And finally, thanks to Kaya for betareading and listening to me whine.

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It seemed a fitting fate for a blind former king, Pelleas thought. Perhaps he should be thankful that he could still make out the vaguest of shapes through the grey light that his world has become. Perhaps he should be thankful that his world hadn't descended to complete darkness.

It had taken only an attack from the goddess to leave him blind, the light of her glory stunned him. Or perhaps it had been the fall, that fall that seemed to last a lifetime as he felt himself slide forwards, the ground giving beneath his legs.

He had lain there on the cold earth as blood streamed from a gash on his forehead. Life seeped out of him as he fell to a place of between life and death. Pelleas could hear the sounds of the battle around him, furious and violent, he could hear every blow.

But he couldn't make out a thing.

The details were filled in later, after the battle had finished. Pelleas had been rescued by a knight, one from Crimea, judging the accent. He remembered little of the exchange. The knight, a kind one, certainly, had ripped a bit of his clothing for bandages. He'd pressed a vulnerary on the wound and yet....

When the battle was over, and the bandages removed, Pelleas saw nothing.

.

It was unquestionable that he would keep the throne upon returning to Daein. Pelleas had been lead to the steps, the hand upon his was gentle and delicate. He could no longer make out the grey stones from each other. The shapes were soft at the edges, black,white and grey. Pelleas' world was one of abstracts.

When alone he felt his way through the halls. The walls were cold and smooth against his hand; it was as if traversing a deep cave, and Pelleas had become lost in those dark, twisting tunnels.

Throughout this, Pelleas still had memory of sight. He remembered the first sight of Nevassa, large and forbidding, covered in snow. And burned in his memory was the first time he'd laid eyes on Micaiah. The wind had caught strands of her thin, wispy silver hair, her cheeks were flushed from the wind and the chill. The smile she gave him was so kind, so warm, he hardly felt the cold.

Izuka had frowned when he had offered her his cloak. Almedha had been amused at her boy's innocent chivalry. It hadn't occurred to him that a king giving his royal cloak to an underling was a faux pas. At that moment it was just a beautiful girl shuddering from the cold.

He hadn't even been able to speak much, for the broach had caught and undoing it had been an ungraceful affair. She looked on curiously as he tried to work it over his head.

"Here– You're...you're shivering."

He handed it to her, suddenly feeling very awkward. She had white in her hair as the tiny flakes fluttered down and she accepted it.

It was his first mistake, and perhaps the only one he hadn't regretted.

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Pelleas would pace the floors if he could, but even now he could not find himself in the solace of books. He had been dealt a fate worse than death, to be stuck in limbo, a weakling and parasite to those he had once claimed to lead.

Pelleas slept often for those first few weeks. His curtains were drawn against the light and he slept away his life. He wondered how many months would pass if he just kept falling into the lack, the undoing that slumber brought him.

And even with that unraveling, his found little peace. Even after the wounds had healed he would suffer from pains that felt as if his head was imploding upon itself. Light was intolerable, even the barest trace of it would send tearing sensations through him like little earthquakes.

During this time Pelleas cast himself, from everyone. Their pity, even her kindness. Like a madman only has the comfort of his madness and delusions, Pelleas now only had the comfort of his memories and the space that his life had once been.

In the absence of sight, his other senses heightened. He could make out the difference between footsteps now. A person's pace revealed more about them than he had ever thought. His fingertips seemed to have grown more sensitive, textures that once would have confused him he could identify by a brush of his hands. The cool smooth stones of the walls, the rough grain of the tables.

And yet, even as he managed, simpler days came to haunt him. He had taken it for granted, everything.

His hand shook as it ran over something silky. A handkerchief? Soft like the robes she must have worn as a Queen.

He had not been able to witness her coronation, though Pelleas was sure she had been glorious. He doubted she wore royal robes, they were likely muted, almost plain. Only slightly above what a commoner would have worn.

She had become the queen of the people. His reign, if you could even call it that, had been swept aside and hers would be the healing to his clusmy mismanagement. In history, he would be a footnote, where people forgot his short, troubled rule all too quickly.

"Pelleas."

Her voice shook him from his melancholy thoughts, and he turned to where her voice had arisen from. He spoke to the shade of his queen, the shapeless mass of light and air that had become his understanding of her.

"Mi— My queen...I've become useless to you. I'm sorry."

"You're not useless," she said.

She came closer now, and he could almost see her, a figure moving through fog. The greys turned to a lighter silver. She was a soft outline of light amongst all the darkness.

"Micaiah..."

She stepped closer, her footsteps low, had he not been more attuned to the sound, he might have missed it.

"I don't want to forget what you look like," Pelleas whispered, for whisper was all he could do now.

Arms enclosed around him. He leaned into them. Safe. Warm. Fingers stroked his hair. Light. Gentle. Comforting.

"You won't," she said. And even he with his idealism, his foolishness and naivete couldn't believe this time.

Hadn't they been a pair, two idealistic fools going down with the ship of their fledgling revolution. There'd been enough hope and blindness for Daein to sink under the mire of their crushed dreams.

Perhaps they even would've won had it not been for his own clumsy mistakes.

"Queen Micaiah, I..."

"You won't. Trust me," she said.

He felt her hands lifting his own. Micaiah placed them upon her face. His fingertips were on her cheekbones, his palm was against her cheek. She moved his hand across her face and he felt every detail. She moved his hand left, over her blinking eyes and forehead, down the bridge of her nose to touch her lips. They were soft and just slightly moist.

He focused on what it was to see, on every detail of her. The memories were fading, but he tried to conjure them up, as if an incantation. _Silver hair. Slender. Fragile-seeming, but strong. Gold eyes_

One day the words for colors might escape him and have no meaning anymore. He felt another dark plume of despair curl around him at that thought. His head sunk against her body. It sounded like being underwater, his ears popping, almost drowning.

"You'll remember," she said. It was a promise, but on her lips it sounded more like a command, a gentle, yet firm command.

.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows. He felt it on his skin like a comforting touch. He could not look at directly, for even now the glare was too bright, but with the curtains thrown back (His queen's demand) the room had changed. It was no longer his prison, but a place of beginnings.

"Are you sure this isn't an inconvenience?" Pelleas asked anxiously.

"Even queens are allowed to have a moment of rest."

"Are you sure you want to be spending this time with me?"

"Yes, Pelleas," she said simply. "I am."

"What are you reading this time?" Pelleas asked.

"Legends. This volume looked like something you'd like."

Pelleas heard the pages rustle as his queen turned them. He could almost discern between the greys and blacks and her whiteness.

".. _The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,_

_And the live green had kindled into flowers_"

Her voice was clear and she uttered each word, pronouncing the complex names of knights far past, ladies of the water, unfaithful queens and battles that torn a country asunder.

The balance of her voice lulled him into a calmer state of mind than he had felt in months, even years, perhaps. She read until the lilt of her voice made him drift off to sleep. Micaiah continued to read for some time before she noticed that her audience had gone. With that, she put aside the tome and rose from the seat. She picked up a light blanket set nearby for such purposes and set it over his sleeping form. He didn't stir.

She repeated those last words once again, from a book carefully chosen. "_and the sweet smell of the fields past, and the sunshine came along with him._"

Micaiah smiled. The mournful expression had finally left his face.


	2. Only A Heartbeat Away

Title: Only A Heartbeat Away

Fandom: FE9, plus precanon

Character/Pairing: Rajaion/Ena, a tinge of IkeSoren at the end, but pretty canonish/genish in nature.

Summary: As long as he breathed so would she.

Sense: Hearing

_All warfare is based on deception._

-The Art of War, Sun Tsu

_The Tactics of War_ is a (quite obvious) allusion to _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu. Any other quotes or histories are more of a paraphrase than any actual resemblance to real battles.

Since there was a lot of holes in Goldoan culture, I had to fill in the gaps with speculation. Along with characterization. Rajaion has all of maybe one line in the entire game, and I wanted to develop a side of Ena beyond what we see. (I want to pretend that at least one of the dragons has a sense of humor, Nasir and Kurthnaga are the only ones who even cracked a smile now and then.) Also, spoilers for the end of POR, Rajaion's fate and RD spoilers at the end. Because the irony was too great for me not to ignore.

And finally, this is part of a larger arc including a prequel and two-three sequels. I've just got to get down and finally finish them.

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Even though the miles spanned long and far, she could still hear his heart beating. It is held deep within her, the memories that float on this black primordial ocean. She kept it close, this knowledge that however far away he was, he still lived. As long as Rajaion still drew breath, no matter how deeply confined he was in the dark bars of his madness, As long as he breathed, so would she.

Ena shed her skin. She cut her hair and her loyalty. With each _snip snip_ fell aside all thoughts of king and country. She donned her cloak and put away her morality. She fold away herself until there was nothing but Rajaion and the distance. And then she did what she had always done best: She calculated.

Rajaion loved her for her intelligence, and it was this same cold logic that drove her forward. She had studied in the King's palace itself, had touched her fingers almost every page in those vast libraries in her hundreds of years of study. With Rajaion's interference, she had even been allowed to study the ancient scrolls that told of the very fibre of their world. Songs of Ashunera, accurate tellings of the creation in the original language, sacred texts hidden in a dragon's cavern of wealth far more precious than the lored treasures dragons, jewels and gold and silver armor.

And yet, her knowledge only spanned so far. While more urbane than most Goldoans, as her grandfather had traveled amongst the Beorc a mere five hundred years ago, she only had his assorted stories of it.

Ena knew only a scholarly view on the beorc. They were weak and short lived, but not to be underestimated. Some were full of fury and conquest and would destroy everything in their path, regardless of the consequences. These beorc seemed to thrive on bloodshed, salting crops and cutting down peasants as if they were animals lead to be slaughtered. Even the defenseless innocent ones were not spared, a tactic labeled utterly unforgivable in _The Tactics of War._

The books told of honorable beorc, heroes and kings, but she suspected most of those lot had died in the past three hundred years.

She hadn't seen any of this generation of short-lived ones show any of those qualities.

It had taken only one mad beorc king to steal her mate away. The beorc had shamed himself by turning away from his life mate and threatening to abandon their child. He'd proven himself a cruel tyrant, a collection of every dark thought or evil desire in the world around him. The person her almost-blood, Rajaion's sister had cleaved herself to.

And Ena would bind herself close, right under his own eyes.

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She wandered through lands of beasts and men, passed through them as a wraith. Ena was a spectator, and perhaps on another time, she would've noted the cultures. _We'll write our own books. We'll create the next stories _ Rajaion had said. They had talked of seeing the edges of the continent that they only knew from maps and tales told. He shared that trace of wanderlust with Kurthnaga who would sit with rapt attention every time beorc matters arose.

How many hundreds of years had they planned out? To see the cultures in a thousand years, a time when the war had ceased. Kurthnaga and Rajaion shared that view, of opening the borders once again.

But even for his idealism, Rajaion knew the ways of dragon and men. His suggestions of walls felled were cast far off in the future. A few hundred years passed like days in Goldoa. Perhaps in that time this bitter generation of soft-skinned and hardhearted beorc would have waned. By then, the vicious ones would have killed themselves off and the peaceful survivors would have learned the bitter taste of wars, and what power could bring.

What none of them had foreseen was Almedha, her rise and her passing through their boundaries. None of them guessed this would be the crack to fell the walls of Goldoa once and for all. This time, not of the proposed peace, but of war.

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One thing that could be said about Daein was that a single soldier could rise through ranks quickly. Hadn't their very king been proof of that? There had been curse of the royal family that had blackened history in the all too recent past, it had caused such an uproar that even the sheltered halls of Goldoa had heard the echoes.

She started in a small battalion as a tactician. The leader was named Grualf and was a tall, scarred man with the wild eyes of a berserker. He had risen to his level by prowess, not leading ability. He was a bloodthirsty man, the kind of man the king cast as the exemplar. Every soldier of Daein should be this willing to throw away his life, while taking down battalions of the other army to do so.

Ena did not lead him to his death, for that was his own doing, his own wishing, even. She escaped unharmed from that lost battalion, but she was one of the few.

Soon, she was assigned a larger battalion, one that had been slated for the conquest of Crimea.

Ena shed what mercy she had, for in the end Rajaion's presence would redeem every cruelty she had to commit as a member of this country. She tried to close her ears to the screams that ripped through the air as Daein ripped through the ranks, taking out innocents and knights alike in their killing frenzy.

The scholar in her admitted the brilliance of these plans, ones that had long predated her service. The life in her reviled it.

But she had always been the composed one, even to the point of coldness. It was Rajaion who dreamed, it was he who would lean over her, his hand up her spine. He'd steal the books from her hands and steal kisses just, without shame at who could be watching.

It was he who had taught her how to smile again after the death of her parents, gentle, teasing lessons that showed that legendary dragon patience. Even as it took her years to submit, he waited for that smile.

And now, she would wait for him, no matter what bodies must be felled for that path or what atrocities it would be paved with.

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She had to balance how much to give. Being with Rajaion meant everything to her, and yet she felt a desire to be the rot that decimated the kingdom from the inside. Subtle misdirections, forgotten mentions of reinforcements, how many mistakes could she arrange without her loyalty being questioned? She pondered this, the wisdom of each move.

How many moves would it take to dethrone the king? (For hadn't the game shown that the piece to most fear was the pawn, for in every pawn could lie a queen, a force hidden behind a cloak of weakness.)

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She was called before the king himself soon after her battalion's fall. He was large, for a beorc. His size wasn't as imposing as the sheer presence of him. He was a predator through and through. Ena could feel that raw sadistic glee that seemed to hang in the air around him. The scent of the place left her breathless with revulsion. Bones and blood and flesh, this was what the castle was steeped in. Fury and agony were its decorations.

Wrapped around the throne, a massive black tail twitched in discontent. Thick chains wrapped around to a spiked collar at his neck. Rajaion, her beloved Rajaion was a pet. A dog, turned insane by cruelty, a steed to ride when the chance suited him.

It took all her strength to swallow back the desire to stare, to run to her love. He was mere inches away.

Rajaion rumbled, his claws scraped at the floor, tugged at his chains. She breathed, calculated, forced breaths and dared not turn her head.

The king's eyes were wild, and yet utterly controlled. He knew of his madness and reveled in it, enjoying the sheer deliciousness of every drop.

"You just might be interesting," he said. The king laughed. His face contorted with it.

"Thank you, my king," she murmured.

"Petrine wanted more soldiers. I hear her last tactician died by Petrine's own spear." he grinned, maniac, a madman's smile.

"You honor me, my king," she replied, robotic, her words coming out a pantomime.

But the king had already lost interest in her and had taken notice in Rajaion's increasing furor. The dragon let out a roar, not of anger, but of pain and anguish, though few save herself would notice the difference.

The king frowned and spoke a rebuke to Rajaion, but it did not still the dragon. If anything, he grew more furious and ripped at the chains to unbind himself and win his freedom, or at least the freedom of death.

"Why are you still here? Leave."

She bowed stiffly and walked as fast as she could without running.

The sound of that roar had ripped through her consciousness. It was a call of pain, through the fog of the madness; a cry of a mate to its loved one, a broken call of her name.

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Petrine was a flame that threatened to ignite at any given time. Her underlings all quivered like reeds when she came around.

The first thing Petrine had done was scoff at her. Ena was almost was surprised that her new commander hadn't spit in her face.

"_A child? Of all the useless things to send me, the King sends me a girl barely out of diapers?"_

Ena had no question as to what had happened to Petrine's prior tactician.

She'd kept silent, taken those first abuses and all later with only the thought of Rajaion on her mind. Every thought that wasn't of survival was of the past. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night and wondered why the bed was cold. Had Rajaion gone to get a drink during the night? Then the haze of induced dreams and memories rushed over her and she remembered.

But she earned her place in Petrine's battalion with a few well placed strategies. Here, she could afford as much sabotage as she'd enjoyed with Grualf. Petrine would catch her lies before she had a chance to utter them.

Ena gathered her books and set out. A troublesome group had sprung up from the cracked ribs of Crimea. Backwoods mercenaries that had cut through the lesser troops sent to destroy them.

She remembered when they had poured over the books of history and of the great Liuzhan's victory of his small, ill-kempt band over a vast army of the tyrant king Fanwai. She had always thought the story more fable than truth. It was said to be ancient, as old as the goddess herself or even older. The details were too legend-like, the discrepancies too vast to ignore.

_"But think of it, a tiny force defeating the king by just one brilliant strategist._"

She had to admire their habits of keeping to wooded places, fleeing and advancing, quite unpredictable. She remembered the old adage, a favorite of Rajaion's:_ even the stinging fly will fell the boar in time._

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The crickets chirped all night in that tiny alcove. It was a good sign for it meant no one lay in wait. The boy had told his commander to press on just a little further, to a safer place.

In a tent hastily put up, a boy laid down the maps. When sleep eluded him, he planned. He had not chosen this war, with its musty ideals and enemy forces made of the stuff of nightmares. But his commander had, and thus the war became his as well.

Which way to leave with the least casualties... Which way to leave his commander victorious, and yet completely unharmed? He pondered as the clouds began to cover the skies. The crickets chirped on, so oblivious as if they belonged to another world.

The child that Rajaion had given his life to protect frowned at the maps. A plan began to form, and he turned it every which way, a way, like a craftsmen inspecting his work for any mar or imperfection. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had figured a way to take control of this war and win back the country.

Though, the spoils, the glory and the battle were minor footnotes to him. Survival was the only key, and not his own but of his commander. He only valued his teammates lives for the sorrow it would bring on his commander and the disadvantage it might bring.

There was no purer instance of loyalty than his, he would defeat this king merely for daring to threaten his commander's life.

Something like a smile formed on his lips as he closed the maps and placed them away again.

An Achilles heel? Perhaps he'd found it.

And with that, a king's son perfected the plan that would be a king's downfall.


	3. Touched

Title: Touched

Fandom: FE9, but precanon

Character/Pairing: IkeSoren, though young enough that it's likely more gennish/loyalty/friendship than anything.

Sense: Touch

Summary: It only took one touch to change the course of a life. IkeSoren

"_It takes so little to make people happy. Just a touch, If we know how to give it, just a word fitly spoken, a slight readjustment of some bolt or pin or bearing in the delicate machinery of a soul."_

_-Frank Crane_

A/N: POR spoilers and RD spoilers, yes, for that. I swore I wouldn't write anymore of that scene for at least a while but this demanded it.

Loudly.

And before r-amythest pulls a BZZT CANON POLICE tazer on me, this is AUish in timeline.

Thanks to Runespoor7 for catching some errors that fell into print the first time~

I.

His eyes fluttered, the light that fell through the trees was too bright. It stung. He felt the warmth of another hand over his own and turned to face. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. Soren wanted to sleep some more, sleep and sleep and sleep until the cold and the hunger would disappear.

But that light kept falling through the tree leaves and getting into his eyes.

Soren focused and unfocused, his mind willing to slip back into the blissful release again. And that's when he saw a tinge of blue hovering beside him.

"Hey, you! Are you ok?" The boy said.

Soren's mouth opened and his lips moved but he was wordless. He let out a gasp, the closest he could do to responding.

The boy moved closer and hovered above him. There were small hands on his arms, pulling him up. Soren felt fear inside his veins, but was too weak to even shy from the boy's touch. When the boy brought out a lunch, Soren was too transfixed with the food to every be freed form this snare.

The boy held it out to him, and Soren tried to lift his arms to grab it, but he was only strong enough to lift them slightly, only to have them tumble back to his sides.

"You don't look so good," The boy said. Soren watched him as he rifled through his pockets and finally pulled out a bundle of something.

"Mother did this when I was sick."

He didn't realize what the boy was doing until he felt something press against his lips and was the feeling of food on his tongue, in his mouth. Taste. He instinctively chewed and felt an ember heat flicker inside his body. It was the most delicious thing he had tasted, the only thing he'd had but berries in weeks.

"I should go tell father about you, I bet he'd let you stay," Ike said. "I'd rather share a bed with you than Mist. She's too little and still wets the bed. You don't wet the bed, do you?"

Home. Memories flashed by. A woman bemoaning his very existence, harsh words aimed at him every waking moment. A sage whose only goal was to pass on his knowledge, no matter what amount of effort it took.

To him the hearth of home was a cold thing, a prison boughten with food and heat. Surely this place would be the same, the same loud voices and anger.

Soren shook his head. No, he couldn't go to this warm place the boy promised. There would be a catch. There would be unhappiness again.

"No? Are you sure? Well, my mother is calling me. I promise I'll come back.," he said.

And then Soren watched as the boy ran away. The warmth that had grown inside him did not disappear, but in the solitude he felt the hope waver. He didn't dare to believe, and yet a tiny part of him did.

.

The boy came back the next day It had been such a relief to see the boy return, like letting go of a breath held for too long. His lungs no longer burned anymore.

It was summer now, the days were long and the nights were never too cold, Soren had begun to scavenge for food in the town nearby. People threw away perfectly good food in refuse. If he could close his eyes and pinch his nose, Soren could almost withstand the stench. He'd had to fight the wild dogs for it, with sticks and fierce faces. Soren longed for a wind tome to truly push them aside, but he'd lost the last one he had while crossing a river.

At the moment the weather was fine, but the sage had taught him the seasons. He had drilled In him the meaning of cold weather, and he remembered the woman's doorstep he was often thrown to, and how the cold wind howled through the cracks of the doors and the holes of his filthy blanket. The kind of blanket you wouldn't give to a _dog._

It was midday when the boy came. He never seemed to come at a specified time, sometimes he would greet Soren with the morning light. Others, he wouldn't come until late in the day when Soren had settled into his despair as the light was receding into itself.

This time, he brought a small blanket as well as a his bundled lunch. (_"You can't have a blanket fort without a blanket! Those two trees would be great for a blanket fort!"_)

"You're stronger now, I bet," the boy grinned. "We're the same age...wanna play?"

Soren blinked. He misunderstood the question. He'd heard the word many times, though never quite understood its meaning.

"Tag, you're it!"

He pushed into Soren, with only the careless roughness of a young boy. However, Soren was weak and light enough that he simply fell over.

He looked up, wary and scared, and wondered why the boy who'd saved him just hurt him.

"Eh, are you ok? You're supposed to chase me!"

Soren shrank back as the boy came closer, in case he would shove him as roughly again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push you down. That's just how you play. You touch the other person and they're 'it'."

Soren tilted his head in curiosity. He wondered if he really could trust this boy after all.

"I never told you my name, did I? I'm Ike. What's your name?"

Soren tried to open his mouth but no words came out. Ike didn't seem to mind, though.

"You'll tell me eventually. I'll be waiting until then. See you tomorrow!"

And Soren sunk back deep into his grassy knoll as the trees whispered overhead.|His sleep was peaceful and dreamless for the first time in his small life.

.

Ike came the day after that and after that. For seven days he returned and brought food, until he took bundles so big that he wobbled from carrying them.

Soren kept what he could of the food for later. He gorged on what couldn't keep in this weather until his stomach filled and stopped its gnawing and burning and he sat back, his hunger stilled for the first time since he'd left the sage's. With this the grass felt softer and the wind felt gentler. This wood almost seemed hospitable, save for the beasts and other people who visited.

It seemed like a home.

Even Soren at his young age knew that summer couldn't last forever. His fear had lessened, but still a twinge of it remained. He wanted to follow Ike home, blanketfort dragging behind him as he made his way to where his friend resided. He would sleep on the floor and suffer insults if he had too.

It would be ok, if Ike was there.

The thing that stopped him most was Soren didn't know if Ike's father would accept him.

Soren had even caught a glimpse of Ike and his father in town. Ike didn't resemble his father much, Greil was too large and his face too full of rough angles. Soren could see a certain likeness forming, but it was slight.

For a moment he'd wondered if Ike had been snuck into Greil's nest like a cuckoo child.

He looked at Greil's face as deeply as he could, as if to invoke some unknown power that the sage had missed. Was he a kind man? Or would he strike Soren just as the woman had?

Even though he wished to stray into their door, memories kept him on the doorstep.

.

Ike kept coming back until one day he didn't. Soren waited until dark lay in wait, with gold skies turning red and an unnatural coolness descending over the forest. When he braved past his forest. The trees waved their goodbyes as he left.

The first thing that reached him upon returning there was the smell of death. It was raw, thick and new in the air. And before him lay the violence of a massacre.

Soren had grow accustomed to finding bodies. He had witnessed the sage's death, and come upon bodies by the gutters where he slept; in the shanties of the furthest parts of towns, where the penniless ones resided.

He felt calm as he inspected them, even as the carnage they had been through looked like the work of some demon, Soren felt no fear. Even soldiers with black armies had come. Within them he took whatever supplies were salvageable from the dead. Let them haunt him, Soren had seen enough cruelty in the world to not fear mere ghosts.

Within them he found food. Dried meat and hardtack, waterskins made of a kind of animal skin he wasn't familiar with. And in one, maps and a sketch of a man. He was a grizzled man, all rough edges and strength.

While the resemblance was not complete, the drawing was of a the man Soren recognized as the Ike's father. He had heard him called 'Greil', and assumed it a name, not a title.

The text, however, said _Former General Gawain_

A fugitive from a country far away.

Soren stepped around the bodies as he left the town. There were women and children here brutally slain, and yet he saw no blue-haired child amongst them. If he had, that last bit of hope would've dried up deep inside.

There was only one clue to the boy's disappearance: a man once named Gawain, now called Greil. Soren could only retrace the man's footsteps to find where he would go.

So Soren started. He lived in churches and played the part of a prodigy aided by spirits. Soren never cared to correct someone's mistake if it was favorable. Through Crimea, Begnion, he traveled with merchants and pilgrims alike.

And with each step, past these hidden footprints, he drew ever nearer.

II.

The diversion in Daein had been a fleeting one. The trail had long grown cold and the likenesses of Gawain and Greil seemed more loose theory than anything nearing truth.

His shoulders were stiff from being hunched over in books. He rested his forehead against his palm. It was throbbing from reading so many words. Daein did not keep its libraries in an orderly fashion. They were dusty, half-used things that were often treated with less care than refuse. On more than one occasion Soren found books that had molded through due leaks, as well as vermin-eaten specimens.

It was a shame, some of the better, more informative ones had already been ruined.

Soren left the libraries of Nevassa discouraged. The cold, grey clouds had huddle in, like a plague, and he had to huddle close to miss the chill of the slicing wind.

Halfway to the residence, sleet began to fall.

It was poor weather to go wait in the breadlines, and Daein was not known for its hospitality. The food for the poor was worse than what they fed their swine. However, Soren mentally noted that too much hunger would weaken him. He had felt the effects of starving firsthand.

Huddled down, Soren did not see the dark cloaks or the shadows beside him. Even in a land choked by madness, the unseen queen was not without her allies.

They passed him by, for what was there to find in a young ragged scholar, sickly and pale. There was certainly nothing noble about him.

Perhaps, if fate had intervened and chosen that path, if Soren had lifted his head to examine the people around him, his life would have been far different.

In another life, he could have been a prince.

Soren did not stay long after that. The climate of Daein was volatile, the people were uneducated and repugnant and the ground never seemed to truly thaw this far north. Winter's cold hung on, even in the warmest months, like an unwelcome guest.

And worst of all the trail had gone cold. The hypothesis of the similarities of Gawain and Greil and that this Gawain could be that boy's father was a far-fetched one, the kind of theory of a child.

And yet, Soren was still a child.

III.

Soren was nearing twelve when he finally caught up. It seemed such an odd occurrence, years of diligent search and calculations and he met Ike again by pure chance. He'd been haggling with a butcher for a bit of sparse, overpriced meat when he felt the presence of someone behind him. Soren was not prone to paying the least bit attention to anyone near him, but this time he turned.

The butcher rattled on marginally better prices but his voice was unimportant, a faraway irritating noise, such as a buzzing fly from what had gained his full attention. The boy had grown up a lot since then, he was much taller and showed the beginnings of adulthood sown in his lanky frame.

But it was the same blue eyes, the same face.

"...Ike?"

Ike blinked. His face showed know signs of recognition.

"How do you know my name?"

Soren felt something crumble. Some well of hope, of expectation, he'd been a foolish child to assume that Ike would remember him and that somehow he could reclaim that. The last few years of his life had been to reclaim a memory.

"...it's nothing, excuse me."

"Wait— Don't go!"

Ike grabbed Soren's arm and it was the same startling warmth on contact. It was all it took to halve the overwhelming emotions and bring Soren's equilibrium back. In a moment of emotion, he'd almost thrown away years of searching.

Ike looked curiously at him, not afraid, but neither did he comprehend the lines in his face or remember seven days six years ago that had been the first taste of happiness in Soren's life.

"What's your name?" Ike said. And it was the same stare, the same face and skin and person. Only this time, Soren wasn't silent.

"Soren," he replied softly, memory tinging his every step.

"You should come home with us, that butcher always overprices, even to widows. Father says he's a crook," Ike said.

"I've no choice. He said he'd give me a discount for settling his papers and affairs but then he reneged."

"Really? Because father was looking for a bookkeeper," Ike said, offhand.

"I can handle secretarial work," Soren replied.

"Then you should go see him, here, I'll lead the way."

Ike grabbed his hand again and soon merged back into a group of mercenaries. There was a bright girl in a brighter colored dress, a priest with tan hair and a gentle face, a squinty eyed green-haired knight and two green haired children that Soren surmised must be somehow related to him. None of them offered any complaint that Soren might darker their door, Oscar even passed a small bit of bread and meat to pass around, and made extra care to include a portion for Soren himself.

The path to the residence of the Greil's Mercenaries was farther than Soren had expected. He took this path in silence, while Ike's sister, Mist, filled the silence with her sunny chatter.

On that trip back, Soren made one decision. His life had already been chosen away. Even if Ike no longer remembered him or the happiness, Soren would protect that feeling, that person no matter what the consequences.

He felt comforted simply to be here beside Ike again, and if he had to keep his life as a shadow at Ike's right side, then so be it. All the despair had bled into a logic and a smooth, water like calm.

.

Upon meeting Greil, his suspicions only solidified more. There was a twang of a Daein accent, even if Greil tried to conceal it. It had lightened over the years that only a practiced ear could hear such a thing, but Soren noted it well.

When Greil saw him he gave no indication of remembrance, as had his son.

Soren consoled himself the only way he knew how: with logic. Ike had been very young at the time, it was not uncommon for children to forget early occurrences, especially traumatic ones that could all too easily be buried. He had read about a peculiar condition while staying in Sienne, of a variety of amnesia that came only after witnessing tragic events. One such case study featured a girl whose entire village had been killed. Her mother's body had shielded her, and only the fact that the raiders did not check beneath it had spared her life.

Neighboring patrols had found her, blood spattered and playing with her dolls despite the carnage around her. They were only able to piece together the story via the details surrounding her: a ripped piece of the mother's skirt, dried blood that corresponded to the mother's wound found exactly on her daughter – as if she had been clinging to her mother just before the attack occurred.

The girl never did regain her memory of that time, and the case study ended with the author deeming it lucky for her own psyche as such a memory would surely drive her to madness.

Though none could tell of the black feathers that she clung too, larger than the ordinary ravens and too lustrous to be a simple crow laguz.

.

"Don't let go of my hand," Ike said.

It was so warm. His pulse fluttered like wind rustling through trees, like light slipping through branches like a memory so important, it shaped his entire being.

Soren held on, and the places he had been and the people he had met on this journey are suddenly non-important. When he slept it was across from Ike's room, close enough to ensure that he could rise in an instant if he was needed.

The other mercenaries are kind, and despite their many kindnesses, Soren could only feel suspicion for them. How many seemingly kind strangers would be a poor child's downfall. He had told himself to trust no one, but he broke that rule and modified it until it fit the only person who had earned the right.

_Trust no one but Ike_

This place is still a better home than the shanties, huts, or gutters he had stayed in. Even if this wasn't a fortuitous find, Soren would leave it if Ike hadn't been here.

No matter what the past or present or future could bring, Soren would keep himself by Ike. Even if it took his whole life, even if Ike never remembered his face. Then, Soren would forge a new bond.

Each touch is a memory of his first taste of happiness, however fleeting it had been. Soren finds himself in each touch that was given, from casual brushes and hands lifting him up to a steadying hand upon his own.

And the world can rot outside these walls. Kingdoms could want for a prince, scholars want for a pupil, armies for a tactician for his life had only one purpose now.

"Can you help me with the history studies this afternoon? Titania is a lot tougher teacher than Rhys ever was."

"Of course, Ike."


	4. Ashes To Ashes

Title: Ashes To Ashes

Fandom: FE9, but precanon.

Character/Pairing: Tibarn/Reyson intended to be gennish but Tibarn likes pretty male herons too much, apparently it's probably more preslash than actual romance, though.

Summary Days later the smell of smoke still clung to his skin.

_"Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains..."_

-Diane Ackerman

A/N: Spoilers for Reyson's past and the Serenes Massacre, but if you're reading this far you've probably played to chapter 15 and beyond in POR.

Birds pull out their feathers for a variety of reasons, one chief reason among them being stress and lack of nutrition.

Oh yes, and I couldn't resist using buirdly to describe Tibarn. It means 'strong and heavily' built. I uh, really couldn't pass that one up. (Plus, the thesaurus was giving me 'omnipotent' and 'bombproof' for alternates. IT COULD BE WORSE.)

I.

Days later the smell of smoke still clung to his skin.

The first night he'd been too numb to scream, by the second the coldness had passed far enough for the horror to finally sink in.

Reyson clawed at his feathers. Singed as they were, the pain felt startlingly clear as he gripped them out and pulled until they came free. White feathers fell from his bloody hands.

Flames had swallowed up his home and family. He witnessed them, his family, his countrymen His father lie sick, barely conscious to the world.

He let out a scream, of pain and fury, a war cry from the still waters.

He kept screaming until he felt strong hands gripped his arms. He recognized the form before him as the person who had scooped him and his father from the flames: Tibarn. Reyson fought against him, knowing it was useless. Even if he used all his strength, he wouldn't even _scratch_ Tibarn.

"Reyson, it's _me_."

"It won't go away, Tibarn. _It won't go away_."

Reyson shuddered. Not with tears, but rage. Unfiltered, pure rage that stung inside his body and pressed against his ribs. He wanted to crush their spines. To rip out their fingernails and make them beg for mercy, and then destroy them just as they had destroyed his family.

Herons were creatures of balance. They lived with order and peace, but that had been torn asunder and what would peace bring him now?

"Reyson...it's ok. You're safe now."

"They burned the children, Tibarn. They _laughed_."

"They won't go unpunished. I swear this by my clan's honor."

Before Reyson could say another word, Tibarn released his grip only to lift him up as if he was made of nothing but air.

"Tibarn, this—"

"Shh, trust me, Reyson."

Reyson stilled, albeit with some sullenness. He allowed himself to be cradled like a common child, Tibarn's powerful arms holding him secure in a place that no beorc would dare strike at him.

Through Phoenicis castle, Tibarn carried him down stairs and through corridors. It was not light enough to see the landscape outside, but Reyson knew it would be craggy. There was no greenery in Phoenicis, just rocks and caverns, heights and dust. The sun beat down without shade to block it.

When he finally reached the door, Tibarn didn't bother to set Reyson down. He kicked in the door, and it swung back on its hinges. The door somehow, managed to not break, and Tibarn went through as if kicking doors in was a normal part of his daily routine.

Somehow, this didn't surprise Reyson. He had known Tibarn when he was younger, albeit distantly. He'd known of Tibarn's blunt, brusque ways and his geniality. He'd only heard that Tibarn was like the ocean, calm one second and deadly the next with little warning in-between.

Inside was a very different room than what he had seen of Phoenicis. The floor was a different shade, whitish marble that reflected even in this dim light. There were many windows. They were far different than most of the others he had scene which seemed more screenless holes, they were edged by a light fillagree of metal covers, and through them he could see the constellations above, clear and cloudless in the black velvet sky,. There was a large tub, made of unknown metals. It was held up by four feet, carved out like a claws, On a stone dresser beside the tub were oils in elaborate colored bottles.

A few chairs sat around, not the coarse, stone and wood creations that he had seen earlier, but small metal things. Things far too small for Tibarn to ever use.

"It's a good thing one of the past queen's was more delicate, They say she had heron blood in her. King Phenon spoiled her shamefully."

Tibarn chuckled. "There's a reason this room is hidden. The ravens would never let us live it down if they knew we had such fineries."

Tibarn set Reyson down, and Reyson sat in one of the elaborate metal chairs.

On the other side was a reservoir of fresh water, beside it was a small stove used for heating that water for bathing. Reyson raised a brow as Tibarn fumbled with the flintsticks task he was obviously quite unused to.

Tibarn scoffed. "You think I'm so royal I can't even draw my own bathwater?"

"I said nothing," Reyson replied. And for the first time since the burning. he felt something like amusement

"I wash in the ocean," Tibarn clarified. "Every single morning."

Finally a spark rose from the flintstick and it devoured the magical tinder beneath the grate. Reyson drew back as the flame lit beneath the iron. Smoke rose beneath it and visions of horror came out through the hazy grey clouds it brought forth.

"Right, fire. Sorry about that."

Tibarn put out the flame, water devoured it and the visions faded back into themselves.

"You'll have to take it cold then. Are you herons up to a cold bath?"

"I can," Reyson said firmly. He would learn to take cold, even if he had never felt it. The waters of Serenes had been infused with magic and always at a pleasant warmth. Even winter had been gentle on the Serenes, the snow that fell filtered through the trees and turned to a slightly cooler rain than summer brought. Legends said that Ashera had blessed the forest for the heron that had stood by her side, with his eternal, unwavering loyalty. Because of that, winter's wrath was gentle on the herons.

Tibarn gathered the water himself. He lifted large buckets as if they were empty, and soon the tub was half full. He deemed this enough and sunk both hands deep into the waters to test them. He didn't flinch at the contact, on contrary, he seemed comfortable.

"It's not even that cold, you'll be fine."

Reyson refused Tibarn's offered hand and stripped off his clothes himself. His wings and burns still stung, and the removal of those clothes felt like ripping off half-healed skin. He placed one foot into the water, and felt a shudder tear through his body. It took only the sheer force of his own will not to cry out from the force of the cold, stinging him like needles.

Perhaps it was race differences, for Hawks were always much stronger and Tibarn prided himself in his endurance. It could be that at the cliffs, Phoenicis grew much colder. Either way, 'not very cold' translated to 'losing feeling in my toes' to Reyson.

Tibarn's protest came half formed before Reyson stopped him.

"It's– _fine_" Reyson said. He took a deep breath and smelled smoke and ash and fear. He plunged into the water and clung to the sides of the tub. He would withstand this. He would be _strong_.

The water poured away grey from his skin. It stung, soapbubbles seeped into cuts and raw wounds where feathers had been plucked out.

Tibarn took some of the oils and soaps at the side and used them at random. He seemed to have no idea what any of them were used for, and thus combined them without any finer sense to the use of scented oils.

The mix was of roses and pines, sandalwood and musk. It all coalesced together to form a combined scent that was near overpowering in its strength.

Tibarn's fingers were coarse. The callouses and roughness felt like sandpaper to his skin, but when Tibarn massaged the green-tinted bottle specified for hair, it was a lulling gesture.

_"Like spun gold..."_ Tibarn murmured.

"Pardon me?" Reyson replied.

"Oh, nothing," Tibarn said.

After a short while, Reyson accustomed to the water, his body still protested, but his mind had freed itself. It seemed more numb than anything. The bathwater was murky now, like swamp water.

"I'll have to have the water drawn up beforehand next time," Tibarn said.

Before Reyson could protest, Tibarn pulled him up and wrung out Reyson's hair. He took extra care, letting each drop run out but left the toweling off to Reyson himself.

When Reyson returned, the sheets were changed and some kind of oil had been dissipated over the porous stone floor. The scent had not completely disappeared, though, he could still discern it through the flowers and stone and the fragrance of hawks; it lingered like a mockery of all that he had lost.

II.

Phoenicis smelled of salt and earth. It was never a scent that Reyson had known before, and such a difference from the Serenes. There were no trees to shade him here and the berries were too rough to be eatable. All his food had to be imported, the one attempt to try and eat the same foods as Tibarn left him close to death's door for days. Tibarn scolded him like a mother after that, and Reyson looked on dazed as Tibarn's concerned face.

_Tibarn grows angry when he's worried.  
_

One of the first things Reyson had explained was the empathetic qualities of a heron, and Tibarn guarded himself accordingly. Every once in a while Tibarn would lose control and Reyson would feel prickles of anger, hunger, happiness or desire.

And with those feelings came fragments of thoughts, they brushed like a light wind against his face.

_ "Like spun gold..."_

But save for these short lapses in control, Tibarn proved to be nothing like Reyson had assumed he would be. Everyone knew of the hawk king's savagery, but few knew of his hospitality or kindnesses. Around his own people, Tibarn showed a gentler side.. There was little trace of the bloodsoaked monster that all Serenes had whispered about.

But Reyson understood now, that deadly force on the battlefield was of protection, not sheer violence. All that fury for the lands and people he loved.

And yet, Reyson envied that power, even that devotion. If he had half of Tibarn's strength, just a mere half, he could shower that wrath upon the laughing fatted nobles of Sienne – Or die trying.

.

The days darkened after that. With his father's continued illness and the colder season of autumn, Reyson rarely left his quarters. It was stormier at the sea's edge, the skies turned a dour grey and chilling drafts found their way through every crack or chink in the masonry.

Reyson spent hours staring from the windowed balcony outside his room. During his darkest nights, he imagined plummeting from that height, his death a tragic lover's demise. His father would not pull through, and no one else had survived, not even his infant sister Leanne.

The question remained, would he die on impact, his bones shattered and wings broken into pieces? During those weakest moments, he wondered.

He remained like this for days, on the precipice of his own destruction until Tibarn came in and made the choice for him.

It had been warmer that day, the grey faded away enough to let the warmth return. The sun was bright, and a feeling almost like hope came over him.

Tibarn came unannounced, his strong wingbeats echoing long before he ever reached Reyson's room. He leaned on the door casually and smiled when Reyson turned.

"Come on, I've something to show you," Tibarn said.

"Where is it?" Reyson said.

"You'll see," Tibarn replied.

Tibarn beckoned and Reyson followed. Before he could say another word, Tibarn scooped him up and covered something over his eyes.

"Tibarn! What is– Why am I _blindfolded_?"

"To keep the surprise, you'll thank me later."

Reyson sulked as he was hoisted up and carried like some fragile doll. He could've flown to any place on this rocky island, perhaps not as swiftly as Tibarn, but he would gone all the same.

The flight was short, shorter than he had expected. Tibarn pulled away the blindfold and Reyson saw. Blue was all around him, the deep navy of Phoenicis' cold, deep waters.

The ocean was so vast, it spanned every inch of the horizon. Even if he squinted, Reyson couldn't find the end of it, he doubted that even Janaff with his skills could find the end.

The sound of waves were relaxing. He closed his eyes and listened. Each break and release rushed over his feet and receded. Beneath him was wet sand, scratchy and moist, it clung to his feet in clumps.

A thought came, of jumping into the ocean and losing himself beneath the waves. His robes would drag him under, the weight like a stone cast to sea.

And he pushed it aside. He had promised himself strength, and he would keep to that promise. Another, stronger thought came and it fell through him like an echo.

_I can live now_.

He opened his eyes again, and Tibarn smiled at him, and Reyson smiled back.

It was a beginning.

.

Little by little, Reyson accustomed.

The only flowers that grew at Phoenicis were a yellow cliff-dwelling variety with thick scratchy leaves and a white and yellow wildflower that grew near the shores. Every day when they were in season, Reyson woke to bundles of them by his bedside. The stems were cut in too haphazard a manner to be from anyone but Tibarn.

The rage did not disappear, and the nightmares did not leave him, but one day, Reyson awoke and noticed the dawn, and grew tired of his own weakness.

Tibarn's presence was a constant comfort, already he'd given so much; his protection, his home, his life.

Reyson wondered how he would ever repay that. His sense of curtsy and laws of the herons demand that this debt be paid in full.

When he questioned this, Tibarn was far opposed to the idea.

"There's no _debt_," Tibarn replied. He sounded irritated by the mere suggestion. "Our clans are brothers, to leave you would be a stain upon both our honors."

Even as he said it, Reyson felt for resonances of feeling beyond the guarded doors of Tibarn's mind. He rarely would intrude on such private things, but a part of him wondered.

_"As if I would make __**you**__ pay_–"

It was freely given. Every safety, every comfort and kindness, day or night. Reyson knew that if Tibarn could've, he'd have taken on the entire world to right this injustice.

For his life.

While it wasn't enough, Tibarn had accepted every kindness simply for the sake of his own life. Shame filled him for a brief instant as he remembered how close he had come to throwing away that life.

It would have been the coarsest rejection had he have ever given up. Even more, it would've been a show of his own weakness, a betrayal of himself.

"Then, excuse this next request," Reyson said. "Though the tongue of the beorc is loathsome, I must learn it if I am to speak with them. I don't want to have demand you translate my insults for me."

"Sure, Reyson. We'll begin tomorrow morning."

Reyson noticed a slight movement in Tibarn's buirdly shoulders, he felt a slight vibration, a rumble.

A concealed laugh.

He frowned, but couldn't bring himself to truly scold Tibarn.

From that day on, he looked on Phoenicis with new eyes. It had a different kind of beauty, a rough, steadfast kind. It was not his beloved Serenes, but Reyson learned to live.

And while years later he would take his revenge, and it would be most sweet, but for that moment, it was all he could do.

.


	5. A Tale Of Two Cooks

Title: A Tale of Two Cooks

Fandom: FE10

Character/Pairing: BoydMist and OscarIlyana (which is actually more IlyanaFood with Oscar watching amusedly)

Summary: Boyd takes one for the team with Mist's cooking, and Oscar's gotten in the habit of feeding a troublesome stray

_"A good cook is like a sorceress who dispenses happiness"_

- Elsa Schiaparelli

A/N: It's been a long journey, eh? It was like crazy NanoLite but I finally made it with barely enough time to spare.

This is a lighter fare than the earlier parts, but I wanted something less angsty and cuter. (And something lighter on me to write! The last ones kept trying to gain plots at the last minute.)

And, in essence, there was only three choices with the sense _taste_:

1) porn

2) silly fluffy cooking fic

3) angsty deathfic.

Guess which I chose.

I.

Boyd had taken a lot for the team. Rolf ran faster and Boyd was more prone to taking breaks during training. Soren would only reply that it was 'tolerable.' no matter what he tasted, and Ike was a little too prone to being too blunt and saying outright that it tasted like that time he fell face-first into the dirt when he was younger. Anyone older was usually too busy to be pulled away back into the kitchen to sample the latest thing she'd created.

It was natural that Boyd be her test subject.

And the truth was, he wanted to stay her test subject. Even if she was younger than him, she was pretty with her big sky blue eyes and sunshiny demeanor. He liked it when she smiled up at him, it left a sort of warmfuzzy feeling that kind of reminded him of that time when he was sick and had a horrible fever, but without the throwing up.

It felt nice to have his own half of her time.

Which meant that training his stomach into something comparable to a silver weapon was all he could do. Mist was careless; she burned things, added too much salt and not enough sugar. The ensuing concoctions probably would've made combat much easier, all they'd have to do would be leave bundles as 'gifts' and the bandits would be bent over with stomachaches by the time the group circled back.

Every day she'd look on expectantly and he'd have to swallow it down and not let on that it tasted like the most bitter poison and often left him with stomachaches after.

Because if he even let it show _slightly_, if he grimaced or drank too much water because she'd put way too much spice in it again, she'd burst into tears.

And Mist never did things half-heartedly. She'd run off sobbing and even if he tried to go after her and say that it wasn't _that bad_, she'd just run farther and cry harder.

And those were the times when she didn't throw the entire batter in his face and storm out _angry_.

So when she called him this unremarkable day of all days, he expected it to be more of the same and tried to set his mind to that calm place, like Oscar had taught him about battle (because if anything, Mist's cooking was a battle)

She had flour dusted over cheeks and a dot of it on her nose. Recently she'd gotten her own apron, and not a hand-me-down like all the others she'd worn. It was cream colored with ruffles and fit her well, rather than the usual overly large one flopping all over.

"It's a new recipe," she said. "I hope you like it."

She lifted the ladle and blew on it before offering it to him with a hopeful smile.

Boyd steeled himself for more of the noxious baking, only to find the taste in his mouth was pleasant. It was good. It was really good.

"It's great, Mist! I love this recipe," Boyd said.

"Really? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?" Mist said warily.

He saw those hopeful, wary eyes looking up at them and this time, he thought, he didn't even have to fake it. He'd have done so, even if the food had turned bitter in his mouth afterwards.

"No, you've gotten tons better since then," Boyd replied.

The wariness dissipated like water evaporating and the only thing that was left was her brightness.

"Oh Boyd, I'm so happy!"

Without any warning she threw her arms around him and embraced him, the kind of hugs they'd not had since their were much younger.

He tried not to focus how good it felt to have her close, how warm she was or that he could feel her small, pert breasts pressed against him. He could swear that Soren could just _read_ those kinds of thoughts and he'd tell Ike and then he'd have a lot of explaining to do.

Mist smiled brighter than he'd seen her and her cheeks were rosy, she leaned up and kissed his cheek before she ran off

"I've got to go get Ike, I bet even he'll love it, oh and Oscar too!"

"But Mist, the soup will burn!" Boyd said.

He touched his cheek where her lips had touched, it still tingled with a pleasant warmth.

Boyd would take all the bad cooking and more if it meant it'd make Mist happy.

II.

"_Eating is not merely a material pleasure. Eating well gives a spectacular joy to life and contributes immensely to goodwill and happy companionship. It is of great importance to the morale."_

-Elsa Schiaparelli

Everyone knew that if you fed a stray cat it'll just start following you around, but that didn't stop Oscar. No matter how that troublesome cat cried, he still threw scraps out.

He sliced up the potatoes, and peeled away the skin to reveal the solid white insides. They looked like large eggs in a bundle, _dragon eggs_ Oscar used to tell Rolf when he was too small to realize the difference.

The stray whimpered as he placed the last potato into the soup.

She was a thin, sickly looking girl; her skin always had a pale sheen that made her look close to death, and her hair was a violet color that was swept off her face. She was around Boyd's age, though she appeared younger due to her sickness.

Oscar already knew quite a bit about her, he'd know the outcome to this story. She'd come in and begged off food and then wandered off. She rarely remembered names, but with enough shared rations, she might be able to find a way to remember that name for a little while before she moved on.

She never stayed anywhere very long. Very few could afford to feed her long and she couldn't survive on kindness so she'd start walking again.

She got a little more talkative when fed, she'd opened up about her parents, how they'd eventually left her to her own devices as the family was on the brink of starvation trying to feed their child.

Maybe it was just a cook's predisposition, he always had a soft spot for the ones who liked his food enough to come back for seconds _or thirds, or fourths or fifths..._

He'd have given her as much as she'd ask for, but Soren had been very clear that any scraps fed to her would come out of the soldier's own pockets, and that the food stores would not suffer because of her insatiable hunger. Soren had been especially harsh when Boyd had let her into the food tent, even if it had been an innocent accident.

But no matter how much he fed her, she always remained such a fragile thing. Oscar had rescued her on the battlefield more than once, a delicate, light thing leaning against his back. She was so light he could pull her back into his saddle with one arm

She was a competent mage though, more than once he'd seen her take out an enemy axe wielder heading towards him with a bolt of lightning searing down from the sky. She also was surprisingly strong for such a small thing. A few times he'd consigned her into carrying supplies and she lifted even the heavier things he'd meant Boyd to carry.

Things he knew were far too heavy for Soren to lift.

He admitted it to himself, a certain amused affection for this stray who followed him in battle and gave him the most pitiful, weak, shaking looks as she moaned for _foood_. More than once he'd caught her before she collapsed, and more than once she'd woken up just to munch off the supplies in his pack.

And here like any day, she was there mewling at him for more. She knew just the way to plead food and if that failed, to snatch it up right from under some of the less watchful eyes. She'd gotten Soren's lambshank once, but she'd never managed to get anything from Ike's plate. Then again, Ike and food had a special bond, almost as strong as her own food love. (And probably, Oscar thought, if Soren had been paying attention to his plate instead of Ike, Ilyana wouldn't have had the chance to steal it. It was no matter, Ike shared his food in the end, something Oscar had never seen him do before, or since.)

She loved his cooking, though he wasn't sure it was much of a compliment as she'd eat anything that wasn't tied down. He'd once caught her gnawing on his tent before, and another time his horse's blanket mysteriously disappeared and he found suspicious fuzz on her clothes that resembled the color.

But as a cook he wasn't immune to compliments. It felt good to see someone who licked the bowl clean and came back with hopeful eyes for more.

The same sort of eyes she gave him now. She whimpered again and he could hear her stomach grumble even from this distance.

Oscar sighed and left his post for a moment, only to pull out the pack he'd already prepared. Meat and bread and cheese, enough to hold her for two-point-five seconds.

"This is all I've got until later, Soren will have my hide if I give anymore," Oscar said.

"Food?" She said hopefully.

"Enjoy," Oscar said.

It had been his lunch rations. Even Soren couldn't fault him for sharing his own rations. (Or at least in theory he couldn't, for Soren could always find ways to be negative.)

His little stray dug in and ate like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted. Each bite was a little piece of heaven to her.

Oscar smiled and returned to his stew.

Cooks and willing eaters always got along.


End file.
